An Uneventful Fortnight
by Monday Morning Murder
Summary: Mister Neighlowe and Mister Barkley on new adventures.


**An Uneventful Fortnight**

It was an old house of brick and mortar, which was odd seeing as all the other houses around there were built mostly out of wood. But of course, neither Mister Barkley, nor Mister Neighlowe were from there anyway, and so naturally they did not find anything peculiar about it.

They both came to town two weeks prior, and even though it was a smaller town than they preferred, they couldn't resist the house when they saw it: medium sized windows, and surrounded by a large garden with lots of trees that covered the whole place in dark and devious shadows. It didn't even have a fence, as so many properties nowadays had.

For thirteen days they asked around, trying to gather information with only vague and seemingly uninterested questions. They asked the grey-haired florist, for whom an untrained eye appeared to have a stick shoved up her surprisingly firm rear end. They asked the young loving-doving couple who almost always sat in the park on a bench in sweet embrace. They asked the waitress who made the best coffee in town, who was saving all of her tip to leave. They asked the notorious group of old ladies, wrinkled and sinister, who refused to even greet you unless you accepted a piece of old candy, so old, in fact, that Mister Neighlowe insisted he could taste the dawn of mankind, and Mister Barkley insisted they should find someone else to ask.

But it seemed like no matter how nonchalantly they asked, no matter how convenient, random or come-to-think-about-it-questions, no matter how innocently and loud they whistled, they never really found out anything useful at all.

On the fourteenth day they decided to go for it anyway. After all, men of their profession could easily spot it as a low-risk-target with high-income, and the profession of Mister Barkley and Mister Neighlowe was, of course, burglary.

They crept towards the house that night, cloaked in shadows, the dark clouds rolling across the sky shutting out what little light the crescent moon shed.

Mister Neighlowe crept, as always, first – his senses keen, his ears strained, aware of every sound in the town, in the land, in the world. Sure, there were only two old men living there, and no one had come nor left that day, but one could never be too careful. That was the secret behind their successful thieving career: care. They chose each house, each target, with such a care that could only be compared to that of young mothers when naming their infants. They staked it out for days and weeks, sometimes even months at a time, asking around, making sure they knew every corner, every street, every creature that would ever come or go. They would not be satisfied until they knew everything there was to know.

Which in this case was very little.

Creeping behind Mister Neighlowe was, as always, Mister Barkley, and as always he was slightly annoyed with the view. He wished that for once he could be in the lead, but he also knew that there were no reasons to change a winning team. He knew that the reason Mister Neighlowe went first, was his almost unsettling sharp senses, and the reason he followed second was the set of lock picks he was carrying. There was not a lock ever to be smithed that he could not open again. And he loved opening things.

As they approached the door, Mister Barkley watched Mister Neighlowe as he made some weird hand gestures. Mister Barkley did not fully comprehend them, as it looked like Mister Neighlowe was striving to strangle an invisible bird, but he shrugged his shoulders and figured it meant he should pick the lock, as he usually did at this stage.

He bent down and felt the soothing, cold metal underneath his fingertips, and with a thrust and a twist and a satisfying click, the lock surrendered to his will and the door unlocked.

He stepped aside and left it to Mister Neighlowe to turn the doorknob and enter first.

The entrance hall was dimly lit and Mister Barkley could only just make out the contours of his surroundings. To his left was a dumbwaiter with two jackets, a scarf and two hats hanging from it, along with what appeared to be a rucksack. To his right were to pairs of boots. In front of him was Mister Neighlowe, who was moving very slowly and sneaky.

Mister Barkley knew the rest of the house would be pitch-dark. He also knew it was in the dark all the valuables were.

He followed his colleague through the room, lock picks still at hand, just in the unlikely case more locks needed to be picked. From experience he knew most people trusted in the fleeing protection the first set of doors gave, and from experience he knew the first set of doors gave in all too easily to be trusted.

As soon as they left the entrance hall, and entered what could only be described as a regular hallway, the darkness crept closer still. Had Mister Barkley been in the possession of senses as keen as those belonging to Mister Neighlowe, he would have been aware of the pictures on the wall, though not what they portrayed. Instead he was only aware of the tile laid floor beneath him and the illusion of light every time he blinked.

But even with his ordinary senses, he could still feel Mister Neighlowe tense as they crossed a threshold and the room grew wider, and he knew something was wrong. He almost considered switching the lock picks with the knife he had strapped to his belt, knowing the gun would only do more harm than good in this blinding environment. But somehow he knew it was already too little too late, when he heard a voice speaking from somewhere in the dark.

"So," it said, "what do we have here?"

It sounded like it was yawning, and it sounded like it was a He.

"Guests, darling, usually visitors are called guests," another male voice answered from another somewhere in the dark. "Although they're probably the rude kind, seeing as they didn't call first."

"That _is_ rude."

"Yet you never thought twice about it, when you kept dropping by the office unannounced."

"Shut up."

Mister Barkley had to admit to himself that he was somewhat confused. Usually, on the extreme rare occasions that he and Mister Neighlowe had been detected in the past, the scenario had played out very differently. First, lights were turned on. Then confrontations were made. Some angry threats were exchanged. And then both himself and Mister Neighlowe would get away, possibly with a good loot, or at least with a good story and more experience.

But this time the lights remained off and the voices in the dark did not seem angry or scared. In fact they sounded… amused.

As the realisation dawned on Mister Barkley, he was struck with fear. Anyone who knew Mister Barkley would say he was a man without fear, just a lot of adrenalin and magical hands. Now it appeared to Mister Barkley that anyone who knew him was wrong. At least in some aspects. He felt his hands tighten the grip around the lock picks.

For once, he was glad Mister Neighlowe stood in front of him.

"What should we do with the bastards?" the first voice asked. "They woke me up. I don't like them."

Mister Barkley took a step back, and knew his associate would be doing the same. Something was terribly wrong, and therefore they should run. It was the only sensible thing to do: screw the plan, screw the profit, and run as if old women with candy were chasing them.

The second voice spoke so calmly and quietly, Mister Barkley knew he was about to die.

"Let there be light," it said.

And light there was. A wall of flames rose high in front of them, sizzling and crackling in red, white and gold, the sudden warmth nearly striking both Mister Neighlowe and Mister Barkley to the ground.

They tried to take a step back, tried to turn around and escape, only to realise they couldn't: behind them was a stonewall that had not been there only seconds ago.

To his right Mister Barkley could see only fire. To his left he could see only fire and Mister Neighlowe moments from collapsing, eyes twitching and legs shaking. In front of him was only fire and two old men whom, despite the heat, made the blood freeze in his veins.

"You know," the smallest said, "when I was your age, I never got myself killed by old people."

At that point, Mister Barkley's brain decided that Mister Barkley could bare no more of this and shut itself down.

He fell to the ground, lock picks still clutched in his hands.

The flames then disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

The taller of the two old men walked over to the burglars and kicked one of them lightly in the side. Then he sighed.

"Edward," he said with accusation in his voice. "You made them faint."

The other man rolled his eyes and shook his head, strikes of gold still evident in the long, white hair.

"Yeah, like you had nothing to do with it, you pyro."

A smile flickered across both their faces.

-

When Mister Barkley and Mister Neighlowe awoke the following morning, they found themselves imprisoned behind bars, the local authorities unable to disguise their amused grins as if they were all sharing some secret or big joke on Mister Barkley and Mister Neighlowe's expense.

They had been found the previous night, they were told, wandering around the park, drunk out of their mind, or perhaps influenced by some hallucinogenic substance.

If they had consumed any odd food lately, any drinks or pills or candy from strangers?

Oh, how Mister Barkley and Mister Neighlowe hated old people.


End file.
